by Dan Rabarts
“Well,” Akmenos said, frowning as he reread the Hornung, the first section of which was not the same as the Dwarvish, “it is only a rolling pin.”
“Pah.” The guard tossed the scroll case in Akmenos lap and stomped away, leaving a pair of dwarves standing over Akmenos with their hands resting ever so lightly on their hammers.
Akmenos considered the scroll case again. The Dwarvish from the first line read, Into the vaunted hallows follow, whereas the Hornung text said, Go blind into the— Likewise, the second sections did not match. Where the Dwarvish read, darkest window, black and white the key, or so had said the head guard, the Hornung instead read, snow breaks upon the glassing sable, which didn’t form a sentence with the first line at all. But the first line of the Hornung, read with the second line of the Dwarvish, almost did: “Go blind into the darkest window, black and white the key.”
Very interesting. There may be a pattern to this after all, one which might only be revealed a step at a time. This place was not his destination, only a stop along the way. But he would never reach the next place if he didn’t get out of this dungeon kitchen, and since he couldn’t rely on his brother to come rescue him, he would have to rescue himself. He looked back up at the dwarves, the shine of their mail and the heft of their hammers and knew that it would take some very clever talking to get them to move.
He wished, therefore, that he was just a bit cleverer.
He sat back, trying to think of something smart to say, and stared down at the two plates where his salt and pepper dried, staring back at him like eyes of black and white.
~
Translocating across the space besieged by the Hornung-Elven assault force was tricky, but not impossible. From cannon turret to siege tower to trebuchet, Hrodok skipped and skittered, blinking from one point to the next until he arrived at the general’s pavilion. The huge tent rumbled slowly forward on massive timber wheels, hauled by a small herd of manacled taur with chains through their mouths.
“Good morning, brother.” Hrodok gave a flourish, bowing low and startling the Warleaders, Warlocks, and Silverblades assembled around the hornung warrior at their centre.
“Hrodok!” the Warmaster glared. “What in the Nine Pits are you doing here?”
“Slipping in past your defences, it would seem. What, no wards against teleportation? Sloppy, Versha.”
Versha stiffened, his black platemail creaking. “Leave us.” He flicked a wrist, and the gathered officers filed out with all due haste and not a few dark scowls. The Warmaster stared Hrodok down, his tail scraping slowly back and forth in irritation.
Hrodok didn’t miss the slight and grinned his sickly grin. “Don’t try that on. I couldn’t give a damn if I offend you or not. But I have important news, which you ought to learn sooner rather than later.”
Versha came around the table spread with maps and markers, with the predatory stalk of a hungry beast. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the opening phase of an assault against this stronghold for the glory of our father’s empire. You interrupt the meeting of my council at your own peril.”
Hrodok spread his palms in mock surrender. “Indeed. But you ought to know two things. For one, the dwarves you attack hold our brother prisoner, and I have been charged by our own mother with the task of liberating him. She has authorised me to exercise whatever power I deem necessary to do so. And we wouldn’t dare defy Mother, would we?”
Versha paused, fingering the pommel of the great curved blade at his side. “Which brother?”
“Akmenos.”
Versha blinked. “Akmenos? You expect me to believe a bunch of dwarves have kidnapped the family runt and brought him here? How great a fool do you take me for?”
Hrodok took a loaf of bread from a side table, tore off a hunk, and popped it in his mouth. “Stranger things have happened. Maybe because our dear incompetent brother is wanted by all of Landaria for the murder of their prince.”
Versha’s face darkened. “Keep your voice down.” He gestured to the comfortable chairs at the back of his command pavilion, and Hrodok gladly dropped into one of them, suddenly aware of how aching and hungry and tired he was. And the game was only just beginning. It was exhausting, but invigorating.
“Tell me everything you know.”
Well, perhaps I will. Or perhaps I will only tell you what I need you to know. He poured a slug of wine into a goblet and began to talk.
~
Akmenos looked up. He’d been dozing, but even so he’d noticed a subtle change. For a long while he’d been hearing a dull thumping sound, erratic but repetitive, like someone in another room randomly banging a staff on the floor. That sound had stopped. The ensuing silence was unsettling. Like that moment in a forest, enjoying the peace and quiet, when you realise there is no wind, no birdsong, nothing save an eerie hollowness which hints at looming danger.
He shook his plates. The peppercorns and salt crystals had dried nicely in the warm kitchen air. Carefully, he funnelled them into their respective receptacles before slipping these back onto his apron and, with practised ease, slung the apron onto his hips, knives and all.
“Ah, I think the dough is ready to knead again.” He stood and dusted off his hands in anticipation. There was something afoot, his culinary instincts told him, and he too wanted to be afoot when it came, not sitting in a corner waiting for the end of the world.
He strode towards the balls of dough, now high and light in their pools of dusted flour and set to work. He had barely kneaded and shaped half the balls when stomping feet and clanking metal echoed from above. He remained focussed on the kneading and the rolling and the stretching, shaping each dough-ball into a twice-folded plait before putting it aside on an oiled ceramic baking tray and giving it a sprinkle of salt and oats. He worked faster, determined that if these were to be his last minutes in this kitchen he would not leave his task incomplete, as seemed to keep happening of late. First, he’d fled his own kitchen without tidying his hotplates; then he’d left the stew cooking in Scimitar’s little hut; then he’d had to rush his lunch in the hyena’s lair; and now he wanted to be sure that, at the very least, these loaves would be ready to cook once they’d risen, even if he wasn’t there to put them in the oven himself. After all, the dwarves had been nice enough to him so far, and there was nothing Akmenos hated more than leaving a job half-done. As he laid the last dough-ball on the baking tray, the clanging resolved itself into a troop of heavily armed dwarven soldiers, bloody and dusty, and glowering like miniature thunderstorms. They thumped into the kitchen and made an unerring line for Akmenos.
With a calm that even surprised himself, Akmenos turned away from the advancing dwarves and washed his hands, quite thoroughly, to remove all the flour and oil and salt that were the battle-stains of his profession.
The bloodied warriors arrayed before him, Akmenos looked to the kitchen staff, who were cowering out of the way. “Now, let them rise for one hour, until they’ve about doubled in size, and get your oven really hot before putting them in to cook. You can tell when they’re done by tapping the bottom with your finger. They should sound hollow. Cool them on a rack so they don’t go soggy underneath.”
Duties thus discharged, Akmenos turned to the soldier standing before him. Poor blighter looked like he’d been having a right hard time of it, too. Whatever was going on up above, in the light of day, he hoped it wasn’t his fault.
“Are you Akmenos of Kriikan? Son of Bane?”
Akmenos glanced over his shoulder to be certain the dwarf was addressing him. “Well, that depends.”
The dwarf lunged, disproportionately large hands gripping Akmenos’ apron and hauling him down to his own eye level. “Too many of my soldiers have died this day for you to stand here and jape. Are you who they say you are?”
Akmenos nodded.
“Bring him.” Prodded with a heavy-hafted spear, Akmenos followed the dwarves into the echoing tunnels, upward towards the possibility of fresh air and sunshine, and away fro
m the promise of fresh bread and butter.
~
Versha crossed his arms, surveying the dwarvish ramparts. How slow could the dwarves be? It was a simple enough request, and given the beating his forces were laying upon the fortress, they should’ve leapt at the opportunity for a reprieve from the hostilities. “You’d better not be lying,” he said to Hrodok, not sparing his accursed brother a glance. “And stop eating my food.”
Hrodok lounged against a Hornung standard, its pennants drooping in the still desert air, and popped another grape in his mouth.
“Oh, quite the black sheep, our brother. Who’d’ve thought he could engineer something so diabolical as an assassination, and also think to plan his cunning escape? Never imagined he had it in him.”
Armour clanked in unison towards the artillery platform, and the brothers turned. A single glowering Silverblade approached, flanked by his aide-de-camp and leading a host of battle-ready elves, Bladesingers and their companies of warriors.
“Versha.” The Silverblade’s call rang with challenge, not the deference owed a liege by his vassal.
Versha stiffened. “Captain Vistai. I gave no command for your forces to break their position.”
“Is it true that you are negotiating with the dwarves for the life of your brother: he who is responsible for the murder of Prince Larthia? We demand you hand him over to us.”
Versha shot a glance at Hrodok, his eyes fiery, but his younger brother simply shrugged. “Did you ward the pavilion against farhearing?”
The Warleader turned back to the Silverblade. “I am in command here. When he is returned, I shall interrogate him and decide if there is a case to answer. Then, and only then, will you have a chance to speak your mind.”
“My orders come from the High Hall.”
“No, you serve me, and I represent Kriikan, to whom the High Hall is but a vassal legion. I tire of your insolence, elf. Now return to your positions.”
All around the artillery dais, armour rattled, and voices grumbled, hornung and elf both. The Silverblade’s forces were already in the throes of warfare. The elves fought the dwarves, their allies of fallen ages, only under the duress of imperial politics. Rumour that a hornung assassin had killed their crown prince could very well be enough to tip Versha’s precarious balance of power. He must tread carefully. Were the elves to revolt and strike an alliance with the dwarves, their combined numbers, together with the enslaved taur should the elves liberate them, would sufficiently outnumber the hornung to send Versha into retreat across the desert. Without the taur to haul their caravans, they would be doomed to thirst and sun-madness. Were this first pillar to topple in Kriikan’s gallery of power, how many more would follow? He couldn’t be the one to bring such shame on his people, his family.
He glanced back at Hrodok but, true to his nature, the warlock was gone, leaving his older brother to clean up his mess, again. Versha sighed and faced the fuming elves.
Chapter Sixteen
Akmenos was marched through the high, narrow streets of the fortress, between flat, squat buildings, beneath a hint of sky as crisp and blue as fresh folded napkins. Dark doorways and windows were barred with grimy steel shutters. The air was thick with smoke and dust. Dwarves scurried about, some hauling the wounded or the dead, others marshalling cartloads of munitions towards the fighting. This may have been a respite in the conflict, but the battle was by no means over. He was possibly the reason for this respite. That couldn’t be good.
The mesa gates appeared, one small iron doorway in its base cracking open at the warparty’s approach. Beyond the gate lay the desert and a waiting army, and questions, and thirst, and hunger. He really should’ve taken a hunk of dough to chew on. Maybe not as nice as when it was baked, but it would’ve filled a gap.
Something moved, a ghostly flicker in his periphery. A trick of the light, or maybe the shadow of a bird skimming past the sun. Then there was a grunt, an outraged cry, and the world dissolved. Akmenos tried to scream but had no voice. No body. He was dust and shadow, swept into a void, nothing but memory and terror torn away by the unknown.
When his body reformed, he was still screaming.
“Shut it!” A hand clipped his ear. “This is meant to be a stealthy rescue.”
Then he dispersed to shadow and mist once more. Where in the Pits had Hrodok appeared from? What was worse: being handed over to the army beyond the walls, or rescued by his nefarious sibling? When he reformed again, he bit his tongue. Then he looked down, saw the city streets far below the parapet where they had alit, and he yelled in alarm.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Hrodok cursed, as dwarves in the street pointed their way, shouting. The pair translocated once more, avoiding a shining metal net that snapped towards them. After several more jarring leaps, Akmenos dropped to his knees, solid stone a welcome change beneath his hooves. The thumping heat of the sun was gone. He took a moment to breathe and pat himself down, ensuring all his necessary anatomy had arrived with him.
“Come on,” Hrodok growled, hauling him to his feet and starting down the corridor.
Akmenos stumbled along, disoriented. They were heading down, but where to? There might have been an invading army at the fortress gates, but how could going deeper into the dwarven stronghold be any better? “Do you have a plan?” he asked, puffing.
“Do you still have the scroll case?”
Akmenos patted his pocket. “Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
“Hang on,” Akmenos stopped dead. “Did you actually come back to rescue me? Or is it only this thing you really want? Where did you go, anyway?”
Hrodok turned, scowling. “Do you want to get out of here, or are we going to waste what’s left of our short lives playing silly question and answer games? I came back, didn’t I?”
Reluctantly, Akmenos handed his brother the mystical rolling pin. A sharp yellow light sprang up over Hrodok’s shoulder, bobbing with them as they resumed walking. “How’s your Dwarvish?”
“No better than yours,” Akmenos replied. He had no intention to share what he’d learned of the coded message with his brother. Hrodok couldn’t be trusted, except perhaps to save himself, but not both of them.
“The first step brought us here, so the clues must lead to a way forward. This says something about black and white.”
Hrodok skidded to a halt, and Akmenos collided with him in a tangle of arms and tail. “What?”
“The Rift. Come on.”
“We’re going to sail out of here?”
“Rift, you idiot, not raft. Every dwarven stronghold is built on a rift. I’ve never seen one, but rumour has they’re like sheets of black glass. That must be what the clue refers to.”
“How do we find it?” Akmenos asked, hoping his puffing would mask the quaver in his voice. A raft sounded much less dangerous than a rift.
“We go down. As deep as we can go.”
~
They came to a high gallery overlooking a pit. Peering over the lip, Akmenos looked down on a flat sheet of hard, black glass. Now and then the walls would shiver, and the obsidian surface would screech, a high thin whine of hard edges scraping against each other, and a bubble would burst from the rift. Sharp, knife-edge slivers of broken glass sprayed the surface, and in their wake a swarm of dwarves would scurry across the black, scooping the slivers into buckets and then clambering from the pit before the next eructation.
“What is it?” Akmenos breathed.
“A rift, I think. Never actually seen one before, but from what I’ve read…” Hrodok trailed off.
Iron rails ran around a stone causeway surrounding the rift, complete with ladders and railcarts. The dwarves emptied their buckets into the carts, which clattered off up the rails. Other than the frantic scrambling which followed each eruption, the dwarves tasked with collecting the fragments went about their business with calm aplomb.
“Now what?” Akmenos whispered, over the groan of iron wheels.
“If the Rift is
the glassing sable, now we need the snow.” He gestured into the heights of the cavern. “There.” High above, almost lost in the shadows, stalactites clung to the cavern ceiling, their pale tips glowing ghostly white.
“Are you sure?” Akmenos asked. “You want to drop a stalactite on the rift? What happened to stealth?”
“Do you ever shut up?”
Akmenos shrugged. “When I’m eating. I don’t like to talk with my mouth full.”
“Come on.” Hrodok hauled Akmenos up by his collar, already murmuring a spell, his free fingers twitching. An ominous rumble echoed through the chamber. The dwarves glanced about warily.
“They’re onto us,” Akmenos hissed. “They know the noises this place makes and that’s not one of them. Whatever you’re doing, they know it’s not right.”
“It won’t matter.” Hrodok snapped his hand towards the ceiling for dramatic effect.
“Oh, bother,” Akmenos said, his voice vanishing as his body disincorporated again, accompanied by a resounding crack of splintering rock. When he reintegrated moments later, it was to a rush of air on his face and an awful sinking sensation. He was clinging to Hrodok, who was in turn clinging to the top face of the stalactite, which had been sheared through by eldritch power and was dropping towards the Rift; the white, rushing to meet the black. Snow on glassing sable. Akmenos closed his eyes and tried not to scream. Surely, he’d done enough falling for one day.
The stalactite slammed into the rift’s surface and shattered into thousands of shards. Akmenos did scream then, in surprise and pain, as he was hurled sideways in the explosive blossom of debris. He skittered across the rift on his back, a bundle of hurt, coughing on limestone dust. This probably wasn’t the outcome Hrodok had been expecting, even if, according to the interpretation of the scroll case Akmenos had garnered in the dwarf kitchen, this course of action almost made sense, in a half-crazed sort of a way.